The Collected Dramas of George Bernard Shaw (Illustrated Edition). GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

he likes, to lecture people without setting himself up against them, to impose his authority on them without humiliating them, and to interfere in their business without impertinence. His well-spring of spiritual enthusiasm and sympathetic emotion has never run dry for a moment: he still eats and sleeps heartily enough to win the daily battle between exhaustion and recuperation triumphantly. Withal, a great baby, pardonably vain of his powers and unconsciously pleased with himself. He has a healthy complexion, a good forehead, with the brows somewhat blunt, and the eyes bright and eager, a mouth resolute, but not particularly well cut, and a substantial nose, with the mobile, spreading nostrils of the dramatic orator, but, like all his features, void of subtlety.

      The typist, Miss Proserpine Garnett, is a brisk little woman of about 30, of the lower middle class, neatly but cheaply dressed in a black merino skirt and a blouse, rather pert and quick of speech, and not very civil in her manner, but sensitive and affectionate. She is clattering away busily at her machine whilst Morell opens the last of his morning’s letters. He realizes its contents with a comic groan of despair.

      PROSERPINE. Another lecture?

      MORELL. Yes. The Hoxton Freedom Group want me to address them on Sunday morning (great emphasis on “Sunday,” this being the unreasonable part of the business). What are they?

      PROSERPINE. Communist Anarchists, I think.

      MORELL. Just like Anarchists not to know that they can’t have a parson on Sunday! Tell them to come to church if they want to hear me: it will do them good. Say I can only come on Mondays and Thursdays. Have you the diary there?

      PROSERPINE (taking up the diary). Yes.

      MORELL. Have I any lecture on for next Monday?

      PROSERPINE (referring to diary). Tower Hamlets Radical Club.

      MORELL. Well, Thursday then?

      PROSERPINE. English Land Restoration League.

      MORELL. What next?

      PROSERPINE. Guild of St. Matthew on Monday. Independent Labor Party, Greenwich Branch, on Thursday. Monday, Social-Democratic Federation, Mile End Branch. Thursday, first Confirmation class — (Impatiently). Oh, I’d better tell them you can’t come. They’re only half a dozen ignorant and conceited costermongers without five shillings between them.

      MORELL (amused). Ah; but you see they’re near relatives of mine, Miss Garnett.

      PROSERPINE (staring at him). Relatives of YOURS!

      MORELL. Yes: we have the same father — in Heaven.

      PROSERPINE (relieved). Oh, is that all?

      MORELL (with a sadness which is a luxury to a man whose voice expresses it so finely). Ah, you don’t believe it. Everybody says it: nobody believes it — nobody. (Briskly, getting back to business.) Well, well! Come, Miss Proserpine, can’t you find a date for the costers? What about the 25th?: that was vacant the day before yesterday.

      PROSERPINE (referring to diary). Engaged — the Fabian Society.

      MORELL. Bother the Fabian Society! Is the 28th gone too?

      PROSERPINE. City dinner. You’re invited to dine with the Founder’s Company.

      MORELL. That’ll do; I’ll go to the Hoxton Group of Freedom instead. (She enters the engagement in silence, with implacable disparagement of the Hoxton Anarchists in every line of her face. Morell bursts open the cover of a copy of The Church Reformer, which has come by post, and glances through Mr. Stewart Hendlam’s leader and the Guild of St. Matthew news. These proceedings are presently enlivened by the appearance of Morell’s curate, the Reverend Alexander Mill, a young gentleman gathered by Morell from the nearest University settlement, whither he had come from Oxford to give the east end of London the benefit of his university training. He is a conceitedly well intentioned, enthusiastic, immature person, with nothing positively unbearable about him except a habit of speaking with his lips carefully closed for half an inch from each corner, a finicking arthulation, and a set of horribly corrupt vowels, notably ow for o, this being his chief means of bringing Oxford refinement to bear on Hackney vulgarity. Morell, whom he has won over by a doglike devotion, looks up indulgently from The Church Reformer as he enters, and remarks) Well, Lexy! Late again, as usual.

      LEXY. I’m afraid so. I wish I could get up in the morning.

      MORELL (exulting in his own energy). Ha! ha! (Whimsically.) Watch and pray, Lexy: watch and pray.

      LEXY. I know. (Rising wittily to the occasion.) But how can I watch and pray when I am asleep? Isn’t that so, Miss Prossy?

      PROSERPINE (sharply). Miss Garnett, if you please.

      LEXY. I beg your pardon — Miss Garnett.

      PROSERPINE. You’ve got to do all the work to-day.

      LEXY. Why?

      PROSERPINE. Never mind why. It will do you good to earn your supper before you eat it, for once in a way, as I do. Come: don’t dawdle. You should have been off on your rounds half an hour ago.

      LEXY (perplexed). Is she in earnest, Morell?

      MORELL (in the highest spirits — his eyes dancing). Yes. I am going to dawdle to-day.

      LEXY. You! You don’t know how.

      MORELL (heartily). Ha! ha! Don’t I? I’m going to have this day all to myself — or at least the forenoon. My wife’s coming back: she’s due here at 11.45.

      LEXY (surprised). Coming back already — with the children? I thought they were to stay to the end of the month.

      MORELL. So they are: she’s only coming up for two days, to get some flannel things for Jimmy, and to see how we’re getting on without her.

      LEXY (anxiously). But, my dear Morell, if what Jimmy and Fluffy had was scarlatina, do you think it wise —

      MORELL. Scarlatina! — rubbish, German measles. I brought it into the house myself from the Pycroft Street School. A parson is like a doctor, my boy: he must face infection as a soldier must face bullets. (He rises and claps Lexy on the shoulder.) Catch the measles if you can, Lexy: she’ll nurse you; and what a piece of luck that will be for you! — eh?

      LEXY (smiling uneasily). It’s so hard to understand you about Mrs. Morell —

      MORELL (tenderly). Ah, my boy, get married — get married to a good woman; and then you’ll understand. That’s a foretaste of what will be best in the Kingdom of Heaven we are trying to establish on earth. That will cure you of dawdling. An honest man feels that he must pay Heaven for every hour of happiness with a good spell of hard, unselfish work to make others happy. We have no more right to consume happiness without producing it than to consume wealth without producing it. Get a wife like my Candida; and you’ll always be in arrear with your repayment. (He pats Lexy affectionately on the back, and is leaving the room when Lexy calls to him.)

      LEXY. Oh, wait a bit: I forgot. (Morell halts and turns with the door knob in his hand.) Your father-in-law is coming round to see you. (Morell shuts the door again, with a complete change of manner.)

      MORELL (surprised and not pleased). Mr. Burgess?

      LEXY. Yes. I passed him in the park, arguing with somebody. He gave me good day and asked me to let you know that he was coming.

      MORELL (half incredulous). But he hasn’t called here for — I may almost say for years. Are you sure, Lexy? You’re not joking, are you?

      LEXY (earnestly). No, sir, really.

      MORELL (thoughtfully). Hm! Time for him to take another look at Candida before she grows out of his knowledge. (He resigns himself to the inevitable, and goes out. Lexy looks after him with beaming, foolish worship.)

      LEXY. What a good man! What a thorough, loving soul he is! (He takes Morell’s place at the table, making himself very comfortable as he takes out a cigaret.)

      PROSERPINE (impatiently, pulling the letter she has been working at off the typewriter and folding